


[revolver in eden]

by ahab2692



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Transhumanism, dystopian au, space travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Under the flesh and bone, under the wires, there's a beating heart. A living thing. Call it a soul, if you have to." Derek grabs his arm, grips hard enough to bruise. "You're as real as I am. Don't let anyone tell you differently."</p>
            </blockquote>





	[revolver in eden]

**I.**  

Akin to charcoal smeared out in deep craters of muck, the earth is turned black with gravel and barren land, flora and fauna alike obliterated from its surface by way of the bomb. It’s been years since the sky was scorched, made dark with thick layers of impenetrable cloud cover, casting all into eternal night. The city never sleeps.

Derek wakes in his apartment, skin prickling uncomfortably with cold sweat.

He sits up, untangling himself from the sheets and flipping on the bedside lamp. The glow of orange - soft though it may be - stings at his eyes, and he cringes away. The radiator hums from inside the closet, low vibrations cutting through the silence. His toes curl on the carpet as he steps out of bed, cracks his knuckles. Dressed in his underwear, he drifts out onto the balcony, shivering in the night breeze as he closes the sliding glass door behind him. 

The clouds roll far and heavy, atmosphere electric with roiling frisson. Derek watches as a single bolt of lightning strikes down in the desert, far beyond the stretches of the city.

The city itself is a mosaic of lights, all glowing orange lantern bulbs strung together across wires and dangling from street corner lamps, illuminating the maze of roadways and offsetting the eerie blankness of the tinted skyscraper windows. There hasn’t been building under 25 stories in this vast cosmopolis since 2079 at the very latest, and the endless rows and columns of black glass looming over the streets create an uneasy aura of claustrophobia. It’s the main reason Derek chose this apartment; not because he likes the altitude, but because it’s one of the few rentable rooms left with an actual view beyond the voyeuristic thrill of spying on murky figures bustling about in their own homes.

He props his elbows up on the railing, shoulders hunched in a lazy slouch as his forearms give life to goosebumps. He looks out from his lofty perch, cautiously observing the lightning storm forming in the distance. The quick flashes streak across the sky, and if he looks closely, he can just make out the jagged shape of the mountain range beyond the desert, rocks all clumped together in wiry spires at the peaks. There are no trees as far as the eye can see.

There are no trees anywhere. Not anymore.

He yawns. Nights like these have been more frequent as of late, especially during storm season. Insomnia, sometimes. Nightmares also. But usually, it’s just a general sort of restlessness, an itching feeling in the back of his skull. Like he’s uncomfortable in his own skin. 

It’s nothing to worry about. His body is probably just ready for the trip. His mind sure as hell is.

There’s a monotone ringing from inside the apartment; a shrill, mechanical sound. His pager. He reenters the bedroom, casting another glance over his shoulder at the sky before closing the glass door and shutting the blinds. Dropping down to the mattress on his stomach, he leans across to the bedside table and snatches the sleek, blue rectangle out from under his I.D. card. 

The message is from Scott:

_Situation downtown. Headed to yours, be ready in five._

Derek tosses the pager aside, rolls over on his back. He cups his hands over his face and lets out a deep sigh. Three more days, he tells himself. He can hold out that long.

The radiator’s humming reaches thunderous levels when he opens the closet and snatches up his gear. He dresses quickly, socks on first and leather jacket last. Bending down, he pulls his briefcase kit out from under the bed and turns off the lamp, making his way to the door in darkness.

There’s virtually no one awake at this hour - tonight or any other night - and his only company on the elevator ride down to the lobby is the bland chiming of soft electronic music cranking out through the speaker box above the emergency phone. Reaching the bottom floor, he steps out into the main hall, raises his hand in a practiced wave the watchman behind the counter.

He zips his jacket right up to his neck as he pushes the double doors open and descends the front staircase to curb. His timing is perfect: the sleek van’s tires squeal as the vehicle makes a sharp turn at the corner, hydroplaning for a moment as it passes over a shallow bank of toxic water pooling in the gutters. Derek waits on the sidewalk as the van screeches to a halt in front of him, steps forward as the back door flings open in greeting.

“Ready to rock, buddy?” Scott shouts cheerfully in his ear, clapping Derek on the back as he climbs in to buckle into the last open seat.

“Fuck, Scott.” That’s Lydia’s voice, coming from the front. She’s riding shotgun, computer already unfolded in her lap, fingers tapping away. Her fiery hair is a mess underneath her woolen cap, voice strained and irritated. “Way too early for yelling...”

Unperturbed by her grumbling, Scott just grins fondly, reaches out to ruffle her hair. “Hey, we’ve got to be awake for this,” he says, withdrawing his hand as Lydia bats it away. “I’m just getting you all in the spirit!”

Allison winces, hands clenching around the steering wheel as she steps on the gas, makes a left at the intersection. “Okay, sweetie, but maybe you could get us all in the spirit a little more quietly?”

Scott falls back in his chair, beaming at Derek. He’s already in gear, handgun at his side and too-large night-vision goggles strapped firmly around his head. He nudges Derek’s shoulder. “You good?”

Derek opens up his kit, unsmiling. “What are we dealing with here?” he asks, loading up charges in his taser.

“The police got a call about a break-in at a satellite station just outside of town,” Allison says. “It looked like a robbery at first, but there’s a hostage situation now and one of the officers responding to the call is in critical condition.” She turns to Lydia. “Any word from Deaton?”

“He’s on scene,” Lydia says, not looking up, eyebrows narrowed in her deep-in-thought frown as she continues to type. “Said he’ll give us more specifics when we get there.”

The dull throbbing of the overhead street lamps fade into the rearview mirror as the van takes the road outside the city limits. Crossing the bridge, they head in the direction of the storm. Under the black sky, a single crimson light blinks in and out of existence in slow tempo at the top of a distant tower.

“Right there,” Scott says, pointing. “Like, six minutes away.” He fidgets in his seat, looks over to Derek. “So what do you think?” he asks, voice suddenly lower, more serious. “It’s the extremists, yeah?”

Derek doesn’t bother indulging in speculation. He keeps silent, setting his taser aside to load a clip into his gun. He slides it into his holster, falls back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

Three more days of this. Just three more days.

 

**II.**

The station is a shack, held up by rickety support beams and overlooking a giant warehouse full of old auto parts. The shades are drawn and the door barricaded, curtains blocking out the cops’ flood-lamps as the shiny cruisers surround the building with their sirens put on mute, lights flashing in a wide circle. Most of the officers are gathered together near the bottom of the staircase leading up to the entrance, guns trained on the door and windows. Several of the higher-ups hang back in a huddled semi-circle, sipping at their coffee mugs and speaking in low voices.

Deaton stands with his arms folded, brow furrowed. He looks up at the sound of the van pulling to halt at the side of the road, waves in greeting as Derek and the gang clamber out into the dirt. “Derek!” he calls, beckoning.

Derek nods, lifts a hand in greeting. “Be right there, sir.” He leans in through the window of the passenger’s seat where Lydia is still seated, still tapping at her keyboard. “Can you get me a blueprint of the building before we go in?”

She nods. “Already on it.” Derek squeezes her shoulder in thanks, pulls away. He pauses.

“Also, a map of that warehouse. Just in case.” Lydia nods again, and he walks away, pulling on his grip gloves and loosening the tension in his wrists. He crowds in next to Deaton, joining the circle of commanders. “Alright, what do I need to know?”

“Anti-bio-enhancement purists,” Deaton says, jerking his head towards the shaded windows. “Six of them, we’re fairly certain. And there’re at least four hostages, so we can’t go in guns blazing.”

One of the police chiefs snorts. “We might not have a choice if we wait much longer,” he grumbles. “Who knows what the fuck they’re doing in there.”

“Okay, so stealth approach then?” Derek confirms, ignoring the interruption, gaze focused on Deaton. “Where’s the best access point?”

Deaton extends an arm, pointing down the slope of the hill where the yawning steel maw of an unused drainage pipe pokes out from the clay-caked dirt. “That should take you directly underneath the basement. You can tunnel in from there.” He glances at the windows again, purses his lips thoughtfully. “Just you and McCall. We can’t afford any casualties.”

“Yes, sir.” Derek scratches his chin. “And the extremists?” he asks. “Subjugation or lethal action?”

Deaton looks at him carefully. “Whatever you deem necessary,”  he answers softly, quiet.

Derek swallows. “Understood.” He makes an about face, marches back to the van and passes Lydia his microcomputer. Peering over the hood, he motions for Scott and Allison to come around to his side.

“Uploaded,” Lydia says airily, pressing the device into Derek’s palm. “Both maps should be on there.” She taps her earpiece meaningfully. “I’ll be on com if you need me.”

Derek nods. “Alright, thanks.” He turns to the others, and they raise their head, look at him attentively. “Allison, Deaton wants you to run point from outside. Scott, you’re with me.” He’s spun around and headed down towards the drainage pipe without waiting for a response, although he can hear the soft padding of Scott’s footsteps trailing behind. 

At the mouth of the hollow tube, he straps on his night-vision goggles and checks the clip in his pistol. Satisfied, he squats down and peers into the darkness ahead.

“Ready?” Scott asks over his shoulder. Derek hums.

“Yeah,” he says. “Come on.”

The tunnel, thankfully, is spacious enough to allow for relatively unrestricted movement. Derek squints through his goggles, trailing one hand along the ringed walls to help feel his way along the path. The floor is dry as a bone, not a puddle to be seen, yet the stench of sewage is potent, thick enough to choke on.

“Ugh,” Scott mutters, coughing. “So gross, man...”

Derek presses a hand to his earpiece. “Lydia, how far along?”

There’s a brief pause; crackling on the other end of the line. Then, barely audible over the reception, “Not far, maybe fifty feet to go. I’ll say when.”

The line goes dead.

The two men tread lightly, but their footsteps still echo in the hollowed out space. The faint glimmer of light behind is growing dimmer and dimmer still.

“Hey.” Scott, muttering again. Derek ignores him. “Hey. Dude.” A pause. “I just wanted to let you know-”

“Scott,” Derek warns, a steely edge creeping into his tone. His protests go unheeded.

“No, look. I know you’re not the touchy feel type, and that’s cool. Still, I just wanted you to know that I’m going to miss you. It’ll be really weird without you around, you know? I mean, you’re going to be working for Stilinski, and it’s going to be, like, _years_ without-”

“McCall,” Derek grits out. Scott falls silent. Derek sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He comes to an abrupt halt, and he hears the other man skid on the ground to avoid running into him. Derek rolls his eyes, adjusts the tightness of his goggles. “Can we just talk about this later? We’re kind of in the middle of something right now.”

He hears a breathy snort, can practically sense Scott’s head bobbing in grudging agreement. “Yeah, no problem. Recommence mission, dude. Boss.”

Derek feels a slight smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head and continues on.

Several yards down, the tunnel starts widening out. Lydia’s voice begins crackling in his ear. “Okay, you should be good not. Start drilling, boys.”

Derek doesn’t respond. He crouches down and holds a hand out behind him, snaps his fingers. He hears Scott cursing as he searches through the pockets in his cargo pants, eventually coming out with the small blue box. Derek takes it and fiddles with the buttons for a minute, stepping back as the box opens up and twists into a large ring. “You clear?” he asks quietly, finger on his wrist.

“Clear,” Scott replies.

Derek presses the button, blinking rapidly as the wall of blue laser light rises up from the center of the ring. The men tilt their heads upward instinctively, watching as the ethereal beam silently cuts a hole through the metal and rock above their heads. It takes about thirty seconds before pebbles and crumbling chunks of earth start to rain down in clouds of dust. Derek turns the pulse drill off, casting the tunnel back into shadow.

“Take lead,” he says, gesturing up through the gaping chasm where particles of dirt are still billowing about like a sandstorm in a bottle.

Scott steps under the hole, raises his arms. Even in the green haze of the night-vision spectacles, Derek can see his partner preparing for the shift. He can sense the tremor of wires and batteries and jagged pieces of metal coming to life underneath the man’s skin. 

Derek is all too familiar with that feeling.

Scott’s claws come out with a swooshing snicker-snack sound. He buries the pointed tips in the walls of the newly opened tunnel and begins to climb, pulling himself up with his arm muscles and pressing his feet against the sides for extra support. He’s up at the top and leaping over the rim in seconds.

Derek waits for the word before following after, letting his own claws come out - and _fuck_ , it hurts every time - and scrabbling up through the dirt cloud, rising to the top and taking Scott’s hand. 

The dust is beginning to settle, and they both remove their goggles, blinking in the off-putting stillness of the basement level. The room is empty, apart from a pile of boxes stashed in the corner with yellow stickers stapled to the side. Scott coughs into his sleeve, trying to muffle the noise. Derek crouches low, keeping an eye on the bar of light shining in through the door at the top of the wooden steps as he examines the blueprint of the station.

“Here,” he says, tugging Scott by the wrist to join him on the floor. Scott squats down obediently, leaning in close to look at the screen. Derek points. “You take that door, come around from the back room. The hostages are being held... _here_. Wait for my go ahead before making a move."

“You got it, boss.” Scott’s up and moving away, around the pit in the floor. He pauses at the right-hand door, glances back. “How are we approaching-”

“Lethal if necessary,” Derek interrupts, anticipating the question. “Up to your discretion.”

Scott grimaces, but he nods anyway, quietly opening up the door and drawing his pistol, slipping in through the back office room. Derek sighs quietly, exhaling through his nose. He looks up at the left-hand door at the top of the stairs, looking under the crack. He can see the shadow of someone pacing back and forth, can hear muffled voices talking angrily.

He puts a hand to his ear. “Going off com,” he whispers.

“Good luck,” Lydia says.

Derek switches off the earpiece, drawing his nightstick and slowly ascending the stairs, footsteps light as a feather. He leans up close to the door, listens carefully.

“It’s almost finished.” A woman’s voice, strained and nervous, flustered. Derek can hear her tapping furiously at a keyboard.

“Hurry up, they’re not going to wait forever.” Another woman. More assured, confident. Probably the ringleader.

Derek frowns, leaning in as close as he can without blowing his cover. He can hear the strangled, choked-off sobbing of another woman, a hostage. A man whispering to her, comforting her.

“ _Quiet_. I’ve already told you, so long as you comply and don’t do anything foolish, you’ll get out of this alive. Now stop sniveling.” That’s the other woman, the cocky one.

Derek closes his eyes, focuses in on all the sounds: the women [crying/speaking/whispering/typing], the men [comforting/pacing/fidgeting restlessly with their guns], the police outside [taking aim/breathing hard/waiting to invade], all the ambient noises of the building’s machinery at work.

“On my mark,” Derek whispers, then remembers about switching off his com. His grip tightens on the nightstick, stretching his free hand towards the doorknob.

There’s a loud buzzing from inside the room, followed quickly by a short bleep. “All finished,” the nervous woman says, deeply relieved.

“Good.” A cough. “Alright, we’re out of here. No witnesses.”

Shit. Derek’s body reacts before his brain does, twisting the knob and slamming his entire weight into the door. The wooden panel nearly breaks off its hinges, flying open and cracking into the head of one of the extremists standing guard close by. He crumples, out like a light, blood gushing from a nasty gash across his face.

Derek snarls, ignoring the pain as his artificial fangs pop out, nightstick raised high over his head. He takes in his surroundings quickly. There is a pale, mousy woman seated in front of large monitor with a microcomputer wired up to the hard drive. Her glasses are sliding down the bridge of her nose, eyes widened in terror as she stares up at him. Aside from her and the unconscious man on the ground, there are four others with guns standing in pairs, turned to face the source of commotion. Deaton’s count was right.

The hostages are bound together on the ground, wrists tied tight with rope. Derek scans the room and zeroes in on the leader, recognizing her immediately: Kate Argent. Her face is no stranger to the evening news.

Kate’s eyes narrow, twisting around to aim a pulse rifle at Derek’s heart.

The side door bursts open, wood splintering into chunks and tearing through the curtains and smashing through dark glass. Scott barrels in, quickly firing off two rounds. One of the terrorists - a white male - yelps in pain, gun clattering to the floor as he clutches his shoulder. Another man, masked, falls backwards in a crumpled heap, the back of his head blow clean off, blood and brain matter splattered over the walls.

The mousy woman in the chair starts screaming, lifting her hands in surrender. Kate ducks down under a nearby desk, dodging Scott’s fire. Derek wheels on the last man standing, jabbing his nightstick under his chin and twisting. The man spasms, shocked unconscious by the taser. He falls back, head smacking on the edge of a desk with a dull thunk. Derek winces at the sound.

He hears the pulse rifle go off, and he ducks without thinking. Scrambling forward, he crowds up close to the terrified hostages. “Stay down, don’t move,” he tells them, letting his claws come out to slice delicately through their restraints. He hears another blast and then the sound of fading footsteps. Lifting his head up over the desk, he sees the mousy woman lying at an angle in her spinning chair, head lolling to the side, sticky crimson pooling on the floor at her feet. The microcomputer in her lap is blown to smithereens.

Thudding silence. Derek leaps to his feet, charging back towards the basement stairs. “Secure the room!” he shouts back to Scott, even as the thundering cacophony of the cops rushing up to the front door drowns out the dripping of blood on the tile.

He slides down the banister, claws scraping on the wood as it creaks beneath his weight. Diving back into the hole in the basement floor, he lands on all fours in the drainage pipe, reaching back around to grab his goggles. 

“Lydia?” he calls, switching his earpiece back on. The static squeals for a second, then goes quiet.

“I’m here,” she responds.

Derek starts moving. “Kate Argent escaped. She’s headed down the tunnel in the opposite direction from which we entered. Does the pipe open up anywhere close by? Anywhere specific she might be headed?”

A pause. The seconds drag. Derek squints through the haze of green. He can hear the distant tapping of Kate’s shoes clanging down on the metal floor. She’s far ahead.

“There’s a ladder,” Lydia says after a few seconds. “It looks like it leads up to the cellar of the warehouse.”

“Thanks.” Derek switches frequencies. “Allison?”

“Here, boss.”

“Target headed for the warehouse. Come in through the front and head down to the cellar. We’re going to cut her off.”

“Roger that.”

The scattershot tapping in the tunnel ahead disappears, and Derek rips off his goggles as a ray of light shines down through the darkness, coming through the hole and illuminating the ladder. He takes the rungs two at a time, silently grateful that Kate didn’t think to close up the opening and lock him in.

It’s dim inside the warehouse: rows of weak fluorescent bars hanging from chains, lighting the maze of shelves and boxes, all vehicle parts smelling of motor oil and rust. Derek withdraws his pistol, cocks it. He takes cover behind the nearest shelf - packed tight with bottles of radiator fluid - listens for any distinctive sound.

On the far side of the room, he can see an iron staircase leading up to a second story landing - a control room overlooking the yard of forklifts and such. There is a door leading to the outside, closed.

“Allison,” Derek murmurs. “Are you in position?”

A crackle. “Just got there. Waiting for your go ahead.”

Derek creeps forward cautiously, peering around the corners of the shelves to look down every aisle. “Kate!” he calls. “You’re trapped in. All of the exits are closed off. Come out slowly and slide your weapon across the floor to me.” He hesitates, finger itching on the trigger. “There’s no other way out of this.”

Several seconds of thudding silence. Derek listens as the cops begin to congregate out in the upstairs hallway alongside Allison. 

The pulse blast comes out of nowhere, blasting through the bottles on the shelf above Derek’s head. Liquid goop spills out through the tattered remains of plastic, spraying onto the floor and dripping down in thick globs. Derek wheels around, taking aim, firing off a pair of quick shots. The pulse rifle starts up again, and the muzzle flash illuminates Kate’s face down the aisle. The second blast screams by Derek’s elbow, grazing the skin and nearly dismembering him.

He aims lower, shoots again. 

Kate screams in pain, her weapon skittering out onto the ground. She keels over, clutching her shattered kneecap. The bone is sticking out through the skin, blood gushing out around the singed fabric of her pants.

“Clear!” Derek yells, and the second story door slams open. Allison and about half of the officers from outside trail in, coming down the stairs with flashlights, handcuffs already out and ready.

Kate is crawling across the floor, trying to grab at her gun. Derek leaps forward and pins her down, hands gripping her wrists. His fangs come out, bared in a rage-driven snarl. His claws slide forth, digging into Kate’s skin and drawing blood. The dark-haired woman glares up at him, unimpressed. “Such a brute,” she spits, disdainful. “What kind of man trades in his humanity for _this_?” She eyes his fangs, glances down at his claws. Her mouth curls in disgust. “No man at all,” she whispers.

Derek feels a hand touch down on his shoulder, gentle and sweet. He looks up to see Allison, flashlight held up to her shoulder. “It’s alright,” she says softly. “It’s over.”

Her words sink in, take root. Derek closes his eyes, forces himself to shift back. Kate winces as his claws retract. “Gentleman,” Derek says politely, nodding at the police as they step forward with the handcuffs. He squeezes the back of Allison’s neck, and together they walk up the stairs and back into the eternal night.

 

**III.**

The technician at the bio-enhancement clinic is a weasel of a man, scrawny and overenthusiastic. Always trying to push his product.

“Just a little nick,” he says, prodding rudely at the singed skin around Derek’s elbow. “Just a minor injury.” He peers up through his spectacles, mouth twisting into a sly smile. “Although, since we’re already in here...” he adds pointedly, peeling back the charred patch of flesh to examine the wires running along the bone inside Derek’s arm.

“No,” Derek says firmly, forcing his voice to remain level. “No upgrades.”

“It’s all free of charge, of course,” the technician continues, oblivious. “I’m sure insurance will cover the medical costs for a field agent wounded in battle.” He removes his glasses, popping a comically oversized monocle up to his left eye, blinking owlishly at the gaping hole. “I think you’ll be very impressed with our latest advancements in-”

“I said no.” Derek wrenches his arm away, barely resisting the urge to crack the other man in the face. “Just seal me up and send me on my way.”

The technician sighs dramatically, swiveling around in his chair to fish through his desk drawers. “As always, a pleasure to see you, Mr. Hale,” he mutters.

Ten minutes later, Derek is exiting through the main lobby. Deaton is waiting for him on a bench outside.

“Come to give me a ride home?” Derek says, half-joking. Deaton smiles, holds up his keys.

“Sure, why not. It’ll give us a chance to talk.”

Deaton’s car is battered, paint chipping off at the edges. It’s rugged, not flashy. It suits him. The drive back isn’t too far, but the lack of sleep and the soothing glow of the passing streetlights have Derek’s eyelids drooping within minutes. He yawns into his sleeve, blinking rapidly and staring out the window to try and keep awake. 

“So,” he says, breaking the ice, “do we have any idea what the purists were after?”

Deaton shakes his head. “The hard drive was completely fried. No telling what they were after.” He makes a left at the corner. “Our best guess is that they were trying to use the satellite to relay a transmission, probably stolen intelligence.” He shrugs. “We’ll be looking into it.”

Derek hums thoughtfully, removing his grip gloves. His limbs still feel sore, fingers tingling from the strain of the shift, teeth aching. He leans back against the headrest, sniffs.

At his left, Deaton is staring fixedly out through the windshield, lower lip caught between his teeth. Derek looks at him and smirks. “If you’ve got something to say, you might as well just spit it out. Sir.”

Deaton smiles self-deprecatingly. “You’re headed out at the end of the week, correct?” he asks cautiously. Derek nods. “Dr. Stilinski is good man. It’s an honor and a privilege to work with him.” 

“He’s not coming,” Derek says. “His son is, I think.” He bobs his head slowly. “But yes. He’s a good man.” He glances over, arches an eyebrow. “Was there a question in there?”

Deaton hesitates. “You’re a good field agent,” he says eventually. “We’re all going to miss you around here.” Derek rolls his eyes, leans up against the window.

“It’s a five year project, sir. I won’t be gone forever.”

“Nevertheless.” He doesn’t speak again for the remainder of the drive. The car comes to a slow halt in front of Derek’s building. Derek twists the handle and takes a step outside. Deaton’s hand shoots out to grab hold of his arm. He looks up at Derek, stern and earnest. “There will always be a place for you here. Don’t forget that.”

Derek looks away. “I know.”

“And if you’re doing this because you’re running from something...”

Derek grins humorlessly, ducks his head. “Everybody’s running from something. But no. That’s not why I’m doing it.”

Deaton sighs, claps Derek’s arm firmly before releasing him. “Well, good luck to you then.” He pauses, chews on his lip for a second. “Don’t worry about coming in the next couple of days. You’ve done enough already. The Kate Argent arrest is going to bring in a lot of valuable intel." 

“Thank you, sir.” Derek feels a weight lifted from his shoulders, a sense of relief. Completion. 

“Just rest up, get ready for your new line of work.” Deaton flashes him a brilliant smile. “And don’t be a stranger. Keep in contact.”

The door closes and the car speeds away down the street, taillights shimmering under the orange lantern glow. The roads are empty, and Derek stands alone on the curb for a moment before turning to enter the building. 

He goes to his room and lies on the bed, and he’s out within seconds.

For once, he gets a good nine hours of sleep.

 

**IV.**

The crew arrives at the command center promptly; all six of them. Derek remembers being given the chance to read through the others’ files before - just a quick background check on the people he would be working with - but he’d opted against it. He’s felt uncomfortable with invading their privacy.

Entering the room and sitting at a desk in the front row, he recognizes at least two of the five faces: Boyd, who he’s seen around the office before and actually had a couple of conversations with, and Erica, who is something of a legend in the world of undercover ops. The other three aren’t familiar to him.

It’s the first time they’ve all been in a room together, but Dr. Stilinski is a thankfully punctual man, so there isn’t much time for awkward silence before he enters through the side door and comes to stand at the front of the room.

“It’s nice to see you all again,” he says, warm and open. He’s a kind-faced man; a little bit older than the last time Derek met with him, a little grayer around the edges. “I’d like to dive right into it, if that’s okay?” No one objects, and he beams, completely sincere and friendly. “Perfect.”

He clasps his hands in his lap, sitting on the edge of a desk, rubbing his palms together. “So. Project Icarus. This is why we’re all here.” He motions around the room, looking at each of them in turn. “You are all volunteers, and each of you have been selected as the best viable candidate for your position in this five-year experiment. Now, I know that no one here is, including myself to be honest, is particularly fond of instructional videos...” He smiles apologetically. “However, I do have a brief clip to show you. Company policy, I’m afraid. It won’t take long.”

He picks up a remote from the desk and points it towards the back of the room. A projector clicks to life, shining a rectangular screen onto the white wall ahead. Derek sits back in his chair.

The video starts off with a bland, monotone song - not unlike the music in the elevators at Derek’s apartment complex. A montage of images flash by: close ups of arms flexing, wires being strung alongside veins and bones, sterilized needles piercing skin, embryos growing inside tanks of soupy green liquid. A woman walks onscreen, lips pulled back in a white-toothed smile. “Beacon Hills Inc. is the world’s leading innovator in the fields of biological enhancement and artificial intelligence,” she says, speech patterns painfully rehearsed. “For over fifty years, we have striven to better the lives of human beings, to transform our great species into something more than _just_ human.”

Derek barely resists rolling his eyes. He tunes out the rest of the speech, glancing to his left to gauge the others’ reactions. Boyd seems politely attentive, Erica bored. The curly-haired man to Boyd’s left - Isaac Lahey, Derek thinks he remembers - is watching closely, brow furrowed in a slight frown.

Further down the row, sitting apart from the group, a blonde man sits expressionlessly, legs crossed, hands folded together in his lap. His hair is combed to perfection, stuck up in little spikes and tufts. His cheekbones are angular and perfectly shaped; eerily so, in Derek’s estimation.

Looking to his right, Derek observes the last crew member. He’s a fresh-faced young man, dark hair buzzed short. He’s barely more than a kid; probably 18 or 19, 20 at the oldest. He’s a bundle of nerves, foot tapping rapidly under his desk, playing distractedly with his pen, looking every which way. His eyes [amber? hazel? some penetrating color] lock with Derek’s and he pauses, mouth turning up into a friendly smile. He lifts a hand in a quick wave. Unsmiling, Derek nods in acknowledgment and turns back to watch the video.

“...the Space Colony Ramses,” the woman onscreen is finishing proudly. Behind her, Derek observes the image of vast, disc shaped space station connected like a wheel with giant spokes of iron and steel. “The next great step in the evolution of humankind.”

The projector whirs and sputters, light fading as the clip ends. The crew claps politely.

Dr. Stilinski steps forward, surveying the room. “We are doing good work here,” he says. “Important work.” He moves closer, taking the time to look each of them in the eye once again. “You have signed on for five years. A one year journey to Ramses in stasis, one year return trip. Three years aboard the station, each contributing in your own way to the advancement of the sciences.” He smiles, and the young guy at Derek’s right smiles back.

Ah. Stilinski’s son. Derek can see the resemblance now.

“It’s a long time to be in stasis, I know,” Stilinski continues. “But I can assure you, you’re all in good hands.” He nods at the boy. “My son Stiles is the finest pilot you can ask for, and he’ll get you to your destination in one piece. Guaranteed.”

The boy - Stiles, Derek’s mind corrects - grins, looks around the room to wave at the crew. This time, Derek waves back. Briefly.

Stilinski walks to the other side of the room, over to the blonde man sitting apart from the rest. “And Jackson here will be in charge of monitoring you while you’re under. Again, good hands.”

Jackson’s mouth slants up at the side, smirks. There’s something off about him, and Derek can’t quite put his finger on it.

Boyd frowns, flips through the stack of folders on his desk. He pauses on a file halfway down, scans the page. His eyes light up in understanding. “You’re a synth, aren’t you?” lifting his head to look at Jackson. He arches an eyebrow. “Right?”

A synthetic humanoid. Human tissue and bone, blood and DNA spliced together, grown in a test tube and genetically engineered to physical perfection. An artificially created man.

Derek can see it now: the creepy flawlessness of Jackson’s features, the not-quite-right rigidity of his posture [like he isn’t entirely sure how to exist in his own skin], the striking color of his eyes.

Jackson matches Boyd’s gaze evenly. “That’s right,” he confesses easily.

Derek can sense the tension in the room amp up about ten levels, everyone on guard, wary. It’s something he’s familiar with himself; the way people treat him with caution because of his enhancements, like he might suddenly snap and go ‘killer robot’ on them [as one decidedly inelegant anti-bio-enhancement protester had once shouted at him on the street corner]. But people like him have never quite suffered the same experience of distrust and suspicion as fully artificial humanoids. People like him have never been lynched in the streets, burned to death and set on display on the steps of the city capitol.

Looking around the room, he sees that the reactions are varied. Stiles looks indifferent; he probably already knew. Boyd looks intrigued, Erica suspicious. Isaac looks uncomfortable.

Jackson observes them calmly, confident smile never slipping. His eyes are reptilian, calculating.

Either oblivious or indifferent to the tension, Dr. Stilinski continues. “Jackson is the best at what he does. He’s been incredibly useful for Beacon Hills Inc. over the past several years, and you’ll be very lucky to have him along.”

Erica snorts, clearly doubtful. Everyone ignores her.

“None of you are strangers to our world,” Stilinski goes on, unperturbed. “You’ve all benefited from the work of this company in one way or another.” He looks at Erica, expression stern. “We’ve created stable, legal drugs that enhance reflex speed and muscle memory.” Erica flushes and looks down at her desk. Stilinski turns to Boyd, smiles kindly. “We’ve made significant advancements in prosthetic limb repair.” 

Boyd chews on his lip, clearly embarrassed. Feeling the weight of the room’s stares, he relents, rolling back his right pant leg. It’s a very good job, Derek has to admit. The skin looks very nearly real; the slightly plastic sheen in the glow of the overhead lights is the only immediate giveaway.

“We’ve even contributed to military endeavors from time to time,” Stilinski says. He turns to Derek, expectant.

Derek swallows, heat rising to his cheeks. He clenches his fists, sweating under the unwelcome attention. Reluctantly, he stands up and - after a long pause - forces himself to shift. 

He hears a couple of gasps, sees Erica and Isaac’s eyes go wide. His claws glimmer in the artificial lighting, razor sharp fangs glistening with wetness. He retracts everything, licking at a spot where a fang nicked his gum. He sits down, not wanting to meet anyone’s gaze. Not wanting to see their fear.

The rest of the meeting goes by smoothly, all things considered. It’s just a series of briefings and run-downs of mission objectives, signing consent forms. The works.

At the end, Stilinski clasps his hands together and smiles at everyone, tells them good luck and provides them with instructions to the launch site. “Don’t be late,” he teases. “Tomorrow, 9 A.M. sharp.” 

He exits through the side door, and the crew rise up slowly to file out through the back. Derek ends up behind Isaac in line, and the shorter man flinches away. Derek stops dead, and Isaac swallows. He flashes Derek an apologetic look before scurrying away.

Derek looks down at the ground, gritting his teeth. He feels a tap on his shoulder and turns around, sees Stiles standing behind him with a determined expression on his face. 

“Your name is Derek, right? I’m Stiles.” He holds out his hand to shake. “Is it okay if I call you Derek, or would you prefer Mr. Hale. Some people think I’m, like, a kid - a _kid_ kid, I mean - and they don’t like it when I call them by their first name. They think it’s disrespectful. So, yeah.”

Derek blinks at him, regards the extended hand. He doesn’t take it straight away, but Stiles never wavers, doesn’t back down. It’s a simple gesture, and it makes Derek feel a lot better than it really ought to.

“Derek is fine,” he replies, gripping Stiles’ hand in his own, shaking firmly. “Stiles. Interesting name.”

Stiles shrugs, grins. “You’re definitely not the first person to say that. I’ve asked my dad about it, but he’s never really given me a good answer. So your guess is as good as mine.”

His smile is infectious, and Derek can’t help but feel a small one tugging at the corners of his own mouth. “Well. Regardless, it’s good to meet you.”

Stiles backs away, headed for the door after Dr. Stilinski. He raises a hand in a two-fingered salute. “See you tomorrow!” he chirps, turning on his heel.

Derek stares after him for a moment, then shakes himself off, exits through the back. 

He goes home and tries to get some sleep, with little success. He’s too jittery, too anxious. Besides, he’s about to be asleep for a year. Might as well enjoy the time he has awake.

There’s nothing on the late news except stories about murder and death. Derek turns it off and goes to stand out on the balcony. The sky is still tonight, no storms in sight. Derek cracks his knuckles and closes his eyes, feels the cool breeze on his skin.

Unbidden, the image of Stiles’ smile flashes through his mind, and he opens his eyes. Frowns.

He tilts his head and looks at the stars. Soon enough he’ll be away from this place.

Soon enough he’ll be somewhere new.

 

**V.**

The ship is smaller than he expected. Or, rather, it’s not as immense. It’s long and sleek - oddly phallic in appearance - shaded in dark and pointed upright like missile rising from the cluster of grey rocks surrounding the launch pad. There are thick glass portholes lining the sides, all the way to the front end up top.

 _The Black Wolf_ , reads the inscription on the side, painted in bright red.

Derek’s team has come to see him off; Scott running up and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug straight away.

“We’re going to annoy the shit out of you with our video messages, dude,” he says seriously. “I promise.”

Allison shakes Derek’s hand, knowing he’s not overly fond of public displays of affection. “It won’t be the same without you,” she says, so typically sweet and sincere that Derek almost feels sad.

“I’ll be back,” he mutters gruffly, yanks her arm to pull her into a one-armed hug. 

Lydia just flashes him a lopsided smile, punches him lightly in the arm. “Go get ‘em,” she says. “Change the world, boss.”

Derek rolls his eyes, biting back a smile. Looking over, he observes the other crew members saying their goodbyes to their loved ones: Boyd trying to extricate himself from the clutches of a weeping older woman, Isaac having a stilted conversation with a man wearing thin-rimmed glass. Stiles is hugging his father, smiling. He catches Derek’s eye and smiles wider.

“You’ll be a good team leader,” Derek says to Scott, turning back to face the group. “You’re ready for it.”

Scott waves him off, grinning goofily. “Oh, shut up. All business, all the time with you, isn’t it?”

Derek falls back to file in with the crew as they walk down the gangplank. He looks back and waves, walking away from Scott and Allison’s teary-eyed smiles, Lydia’s stoic watchfulness. 

He takes in a sharp breath as the shuttle door shuts behind him and the air lock opens to allow the group access to the spiral staircase. 

“Third level!” Stiles calls from the head of the line. “Follow me!” 

The ship’s interior is fairly standard for a vessel this size: octagonal in shape, padded walls for protection, all lined with tightly-wound wires and blinking lights on control panels. Fluorescent rings of light provide illumination, stretching from top to bottom like the glowing ribcage of some enormous sea creature’s skeleton. The bottom floor is simply a mess of controls, the second a mess hall for meals and recreation. Up top, Derek can see the wide window of the cockpit.

The third floor is the hyper-sleep chamber. Dimly lit, with a great cylindrical pillar rising up from the middle of an empty rotunda. The room feels eerily tomb-like.

“I hope you’re all ready for a good, long rest,” Stiles says cheerfully, standing back as Jackson fiddles with the control box on the wall. The pillar makes a quiet hissing noise, emitting a gust of steam as four giant drawers slide open. Derek represses the urge to shudder.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Erica says, stepping forward without hesitation. She yawns. “I haven’t slept in _days_.”

She lies down in the bottom drawer, folding her arms protectively across her chest. Jackson smiles icily down at her. “You’re going to feel a little pinch,” he says, promptly sticking a syringe into the side of her neck, squeezing down. Erica cringes, freezing up, then relaxes. Her eyes roll back, and she begins to snore.

“How are we fed?” Isaac asks curiously as Jackson slides the drawer shut, sealing Erica into the machine.

“Intravenously,” Jackson replies. He smirks at the crew’s questioning glances. “You don’t want to know more than that.”

Derek stands back as the others get hooked in, watches Jackson’s nimble fingers at work, watches Stiles standing by the door with his arms crossed. He bites his lip, stiffening as Jackson turns to beckon him closer. “I was wondering if we could wait until after take-off?” he asks, feeling unreasonably awkward. The question sounded better in his head.

“What, do you have to vacate your bowels?” Jackson asks, half-serious, half mocking. He pats the pillar. “It’s all taken care of. Trust us.”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s not that. I just...” He trails off, turns beseechingly towards Stiles. “I wanted to see the sun...”

Stiles’ eyes widen briefly. He stares, focused, intense. Like he’s trying to see into Derek’s soul. His mouth twists up at the side, and he nods slowly. “Yeah. I think that’ll be fine.” He looks at Jackson. “That okay with you?”

Jackson shrugs, closes the empty drawer with a loud snap. “Makes no difference to me.”

Five minutes later, they’re up on deck, all strapped into chairs in front of the wide window, prepared for the liftoff. Derek grips his armrests tightly, digging his nails into the cushioning. Looking out through the glass, he can just make out the murky forms of the bystanders watching from inside the command station, peering up at him like ants beneath his feet.

Stiles adjusts his earpiece, pressing a button on the control panel to tilt his chair back. “Ready for the countdown,” he announces.

“Roger that,” Dr. Stilinski’s voice resonates through the speakers. “Safe travel, son.”

Stiles grins, starts tapping at a keyboard. He twists a few handles, pulls a couple of levers. Derek closes his eyes, feeling the vibrations in the floor as the ship’s thrusters kick on. Clouds of ash billow up from the fire below, trailing in twin smoke plumes up into the darkness above. The countdown intones:

_Ten...nine...eight..._

Derek’s heart clenches in his chest. He spares another look through the glass, glancing down at the people below. His stomach flip-flops.

_...four...three...two...one..._

It’s a slow rise, shooting up into the air with a surprising gentleness, quickly gaining moment and cutting through the sky like a fiery dagger in the dark, wind roaring outside, engines thrumming down below. Through the glass, the city can be seen sprawled out below: glittering lights and dark spires of towers, blinking red dots in the midst of the orange, all shimmering black windows appearing as a single pixelated panel from this vantage point.

 _The Black Wolf_ plunges into the blanket of electric clouds, and the window fills with smoke. In the suffocating darkness, Derek can see flashes of lightning - so much louder from this close - mixing in with the shrieking of the thrusters belching gallons of roiling flames out behind.

And then: the sky. 

The true sky, far above the endless night. Impossibly blue, radiant. The sun shines bigger and brighter than Derek could have ever dreamed, morning colors splayed out in hues of pinkish-purple and a rich haze of golden orange. It seems in that moment as though all sound is gone from the world. Only the beauty of this - _this_ right here.

Derek is nearly certain he’s gaping like an idiot, but he can’t bring himself to care. For all he knows, this is the last chance he’ll get to see something this pure, this amazing. He’s going to savor every second.

And then it’s over as quickly as it began. The ship jolts violently as it strikes through the barrier of the atmosphere, a screaming splitting Derek’s eardrums as the great mechanism blasts out into the emptiness of space.

The fire fades, all sound drowning into nothing. All that’s left is the blackness and the stars. 

Derek slumps in his seat, letting his heartbeat slow to normal. He can hear Stiles chuckling at him, sees Jackson already unbuckling himself and gathering up his kit.

“Ready then?” the synth asks. Derek nods dazedly, standing slowly. He catches Stiles eye, and they share a private smile. A moment of silent agreement, of _That was fucking amazing._

Stiles and Jackson make for the stairs, and Derek follows close behind. He peeks out through the porthole, looks at the disappearing orb of Earth. It’s shrouded completely in noxious clouds, appearing diseased. Even the tiny flashes of electricity are visible from this distance.

Derek hesitates, slowly turns away and finishes the descent to the hyper-sleep chamber.

“What about you?” he asks Stiles, allowing Jackson to push him into a reclining position. “You’re not going to be piloting the ship the _entire_ way there. What are you going to do for a whole year?” 

Stiles smiles ruefully. “You know. Stuff.” He makes a general sort of gesture. “Movies, books. There’s some gym equipment if I get restless.” His mouth twitches. “Also, I’ve got Jackson here to keep me company.”

Derek barks out a short, amused laugh, eliciting a happy chuckle from Stiles. Jackson pushes Derek’s head back forcefully, exposing his neck. “Hold still,” he murmurs, sticking the needle in.

The sting is brief, almost inconsequential. Derek’s vision turns fuzzy, jaw going slack. The last thing he sees is Stiles face swimming out of focus in the glow of the dull lighting. Jackson slides the drawer shut, and Derek’s mind turns to jelly.

It’s the deepest of all slumbers, save death.

 

 **VI.**  

Under the drug, he’s swimming in shadow. Most days - weeks, even - it’s the curious state of true blankness of the mind; like living on the verge of awareness, but not quite. A feeling of true peace, free from the burdens of memory and thought. A warm, soothing sensation filling up his body from inside his chest and coursing through his bloodstream.

There are other days, however, when he comes a little too close to the surface of consciousness. And that’s when the dreams start.

He’s sitting on a park bench in the middle of an abandoned park, listening to the swings creak as they swing back and forth in the wind of the coming storm. The sky is dark, _always_ dark, and the ominous rumbling only exacerbates Derek’s depression.

A slender brunette sidles up to him on the bench, appearing from behind without a sound. She smiles at him, sweet and sad. “You look good,” she says.

Derek swallows the lump in his throat, leaning over to rest his cheek on her shoulder. It’s a gesture he can allow himself, here in the safety of his own head. “I’m tired, Laura.”

She threads her fingers through his hair, stroking gently. “Look to the stars.”

“I’m going far beyond,” Derek replies. “I can’t stop.” Laura huffs out a breathy laugh, and the noise echoes across the playground; the remnants of a ghost, of a fading memory. 

“You never could.”

She’s gone now, and the playground is on fire. Derek can feel his skin burning, sees the flesh melting away to bone, blood sizzling hot on the pavement. The carousel is spinning too fast, plastic horses’ teeth bared in threatening grins, paint singing away and blackening out the bright colors. Laura is standing under the gazebo now, and she’s with their mother and father. Uncle Peter, too. And the playground is no longer a playground at all; it’s a house in the desert community, far from the iron towers of the city. 

And the walls are coming down.

Derek reaches out towards his kin, watches his own fingers crumble into dust as the rafters crash down and send sparks flying into the air. Everything turns hazy after that.

The dreams all take on these similar themes; all full of pain and memory, of physical agony and psychic wounds. They’ll come and go with no discernible regularity, each more harrowing than the last. It’s a blessed relief to be able to sink back into the folds of darkness. Of unknowing.

Enough time passes, and the nightmares start to come more frequently. And the effects of stasis begin to seem less and less effective, as Derek’s sense of awareness amps up, turns sober. He’s aware that he’s dreaming, aware of where he truly is. But he can’t make the visions stop. Can’t block out the screaming and the smell of human meat turning crisp in the flickering tongues of fire. It goes on and on.

 

**VII.**

And then one day, it just stops.

He jolts awake with a gasp, shuddering uncontrollably as he sits up in the harsh glow of the hyper-sleep chamber, steam rising up around his legs. He’s sweating profusely, muscles straining and spasming. There’s a hand rubbing his back - of which he’s only vaguely aware - and a voice is speaking nonsense in his ear.

A bucket is placed in between his legs, and he gives in to his nausea, vacating the contents of his empty-feeling stomach into the metal bin. 

“That’s it,” the voice in his ear is telling him, quiet and encouraging. “Breathe, just breathe. Relax.”

Derek blinks, wiping saliva and vomit from the corners of his mouth. He spits up bile in with the sickly green liquid sloshing around in the can.

“There you go. Think you can stand, or do you need to sit for a while?”

Derek wipes his eye with the back of his arm, squints as his vision starts to clear. It’s Stiles’ face looming close to his, Stiles’ hand rubbing circles into his back. “Yeah,” Derek murmurs, startled by the hoarseness of his own voice.

It’s surreal, coming back after all this time. Stiles actually _looks_ a little older, too; his hair is slightly longer and stuck up in the front, and he seems less lean. Like he’s gained some muscle mass in his arm over the past several months.

“Vitals are stable.” That’s Jackson’s voice, controlled and indifferent. Derek looks up. The blonde synth doesn’t appear noticeably different. Maybe a little taller. “I wouldn’t feed him anything just yet, but he’ll be fine.”

Derek frowns, takes in his surroundings. Jackson walks out and ascends the spiral staircase, leaving the two men alone.

“What’s going on?” Derek asks. He clears his throat, hacks up a glob of phlegm into the can. His nose crinkles. “Where are the others?” 

“Still in stasis,” Stiles replies, continuing to rub Derek’s back. He chews his lip, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “We actually haven’t arrived yet, I’m afraid. We’re still about three months out.” 

Derek’s frown deepens. “Oh. Then why am I awake?”

“It was becoming difficult to monitor you,” Stiles says. “You were having...dreams. We had to give you drugs to try and keep you under. Jackson had to start keeping close watch on you, just in case.” He pulls away, clasping his hands together in his lap. “I made a judgment call and decided to wake you. Jackson said you would be fine, said he could keep you sedated, but...” 

He trails off, expression apologetic. Derek nods. “You didn’t want to pump me full of drugs,” he finishes. Stiles dips his head in acknowledgment. “That’s understandable.”

“A body in stasis is already under a lot of stress,” Stiles says, as though he still feels the need to explain himself. “You’re essentially frozen while you’re under, but we can’t stop your subconscious from keeping you captive.” He smiles tentatively. “I figured you could handle three months of boredom better than three months of nightmares.”

Derek huffs mirthlessly, scratching the back of his head. “You figured right.” He wipes his mouth again, tilting his head to sniff under his armpit. He makes a face. “I smell like death.”

Stiles chuckles, looking more at ease. He stands up with a grunt, extends a hand to help Derek to his feet. “Well, I think I can help with that.”

There’s a steam shower on the lower deck. Derek hadn’t noticed it on his way in. He stands alone in the semi-darkness, bare toes curling against the grate under his feet, arms splayed out to the sides and gripping the bars of the cage. He gasps audibly as the steam comes down in a warm mist upon his face, and he relaxes into the cleansing feeling of water trickling down his skin. His limbs are sore from lack of use, knuckles cracking every time he flexes his fingers. He rubs at his chest and under his arms, wiping away the feeling of sickness and disease created by stasis.

He steps out and dresses, feeling rejuvenated.

Stiles and Jackson are on the second floor; the largest deck. They’re sitting together at a round table, half-empty plates laid out in front of them. Jackson is chewing on some red fruit, book open in his lap. Stiles looks up at the sound of Derek’s footsteps, beams.

“Hey! Feeling better?”

Derek nods, moving over to join them. He plops down in an empty chair. “Very much. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Stiles is on his feet again, walking over to a refrigerator by the counter. “Want something to eat? I’m sure you’re still feeling kinda icky, but getting some food in your stomach will work wonders, I promise.”

Derek peers around Stiles’ shoulder, staring at the contents of the fridge. “You brought actual food? How do you have room for that?”

Jackson snorts, not looking up from his book. Stiles waves a dismissive hand. “Well, it was only supposed to be Jackson and me, and a year’s supply of food for two people isn’t quite as much as you’d think it is. There’s plenty of storage space on the ship.” He wheels around, snatching a loaf of bread off the counter. “Sandwich?”

He sets about slicing up meat and bread without really waiting for an answer, and Derek just watches, not sure whether to be amused or dumbfounded. He turns to look at Jackson, who seems completely disinterested in his surroundings. “So...” Derek coughs. “I didn’t know your kind needed to eat.”

It’s just an icebreaker with no underlying meaning, but it’s a stupid thing to say, and Derek wants to kick himself in the balls as soon as the words finish tripping out of his mouth. Jackson looks up from the book, lips curled into a disdainful sneer. “Yes, we do. I also shit, in case you wondering.” 

Derek winces. “I didn’t mean it that way. Sorry. I was just curious. Making conversation.”

Jackson cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed, calculating. Stiles is looking between the two of them uneasily, knife frozen in the middle of slicing Derek’s sandwich in half. “I’m not a robot,” Jackson says eventually, and while his expression doesn’t soften, there’s something in his tone of voice that makes Stiles relax and resume his business. “The purpose of my design is to be as close to a ‘real’ human as possible. And that involves every facet of the human experience; good and bad, exhilarating and mundane.” He looks back down at his book, licks across his lower row of teeth. “I may have been grown in jar, but rest assured, my mind and body aren’t so very different from yours.”

Stiles scurries over with a full plate in one hand - sandwich and fruit all cut up and bunched together - and a glass of water in the other. He sets them in front of Derek. “There you go. Enjoy.”

“Thanks.” Derek takes a sizable bite, surprised to find that the smell of food just makes him hungry instead of nauseous.

Stiles watches him, chin propped up in his palms - and does he _ever_ stop smiling? “You’re probably sick of sleeping, but I wouldn’t put your muscles through too much strain right now,” he says. “I’ll make up your bed after you’re finished eating, and you can take a nap if you like.”

Derek nods through a mouthful, swallows back some water. “That sounds good.”

They eat quietly after that. Derek scarfs his food down hungrily, Stiles observing him with a strangely fond expression. Jackson finishes first and leaves without another word, still reading his book. Stiles watches him go, leans over to Derek with a conspiratorial look. “Speaking purely selfishly, I’m really glad I’ve got someone else to talk to now. He’s not exactly the best conversationalist.”

Derek snorts. “I gathered that pretty quickly.”

Stiles laughs, and Derek’s stomach does a weird turn-over. But it’s not from the nausea this time.


End file.
